


I'm Not Your Father

by RiskyBiznu



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch, Gen, and jesse is a brat, gabe accidentally gets in touch with his fatherly instincts, honestly? dad-gabe is underrated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 03:39:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12224982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiskyBiznu/pseuds/RiskyBiznu
Summary: Jesse's always had a nasty habit of alienating himself from society. Gabriel sometimes forgets that he's not the world's judge, jury, and/or executioner.Gabriel is not Jesse's father. He never has been, and he never will be. They can pretend, though.





	1. Picking Up the Damn Ingrate

As a decorated veteran, a highly-enhanced supersoldier, the original Overwatch leader, and the current commander of Blackwatch, Gabriel Reyes carried a staggering amount of authority.

It was precisely that awe-inspiring reputation that let him get away with dragging a foul-mouthed lanky teenager through the Blackwatch corridors by the ear.

Unfortunately, yet predictably, that same youth was not about to muster up any of the respect that Gabriel was due. He had an endless stream of crude words spilling from his clenched teeth, his expression always somewhere between a pout and a sneer. Judging by his shuffling gait, he seemed to be actively trying to scuff up the tile floor with his dusty cowboy-boots. At nearly six feet tall, he was comically hunched to keep his face level with Gabriel’s grip.

The promenade slowed to a halt, and the teen barely caught sight of the words “INTERROGATION ROOM” on the door ahead before being roughly shoved inside.

Gabriel locked the door and then leaned casually against it, arms folded. “You know, I wouldn’t be treating you like a kid if _you_ weren’t being such a brat. Take a seat. And tell me your name again.”

The kid in question hooked his thumbs into his belt and sat on the very edge of the room’s heavy table, chin tilted upwards. “Jesse.”

He reminded Gabriel of a feral housecat with its fur all bristled: hissing and spitting, but a pitiful bag of bones nonetheless.

Jesse’s build was simply far too gaunt for its width, and his strong jaw was compromised by the hollow cheeks and unevenly-trimmed scruff. He wore a gray tank-top that looked a size too big; the fading image of a scowling man printed onto the front—clad in a nice suit and confidently aiming a revolver—seemed to reflect just what Jesse _thought_ he was. Meanwhile, the shiny metal studs and skull-patterned patches that decorated his leather Deadlock vest weren’t exactly intimidating. His tattered and slim-fitting jeans carried an amusing ratio of oil smears (plenty) to bloodstains (few).

As he stifled a condescending chuckle, Gabriel knew that while he had no clue _where_ Jesse had acquired that obnoxious Deadlock belt-buckle, he was certain _why_ he was showing it off. Sighing as he stepped away from the reinforced door, Gabriel paced around the table to the edge opposite Jesse. He had a gut-feeling that he was in for a Pyrrhic victory with whatever conversation unfolded here. Jesse was a punk kid, sure, but he was still a weapon-smuggling gangster with a criminal record a mile long and a mean-streak even wider. He wasn’t going to finish this process without a very tedious fight. Exhausted by the thought, Gabriel fetched a plain-looking tablet from a lockbox near his side of the desk, then seated himself in a creaky metal folding-chair without any regard for Jesse’s nonverbal challenges.

Jesse did not turn to look at him.

“Well, _buckaroo,_ the U.N. is gonna need more than just your first name.” He’d spat out that sarcastic loanword a smidge harsher than he’d meant to, but not nearly as much as he’d wanted to.

Eye-contact was briefly established over Jesse’s studded leather shoulder. “Jesse. James. _McCree._ ” Evidently, there was some emotion wrapped up in that surname, and Gabriel honestly couldn’t tell if it was vanity or familial contempt… or both.

“Thanks for finally cooperating.” Gabriel tapped and swiped a bit on his tablet, then looked up again with a slightly less hostile expression. “I don’t want to waste my time here any more than you do, so I’m gonna suggest that you sit your bony ass in an actual chair and start giving me _answers_ instead of _attitude._ ”

Jesse’s wallet chain rattled against the tabletop as he wordlessly slid from his perch. When pulling out a folding-chair for himself, he deliberately yanked it to cause a nasty clattering screech, then dropped into the seat with all the elegance of a sock full of gravel.

“Thank you, Jesse.” As the Commander, Gabriel figured he might as well lead by example. “Date of birth?”

“Two twenty-six thirty-nine.” His grimy left hand had wandered up to fiddle with his silver earrings.

“17, huh? You don’t look a day over 12.” Unfortunately, he grinned at his own jab. “Birthplace?”

“Santa Fe.”

“Education?”

Jesse slapped his palms flat on the table, and his numerous bracelets—a mess of silver, turquoise, and black leather—loudly jingled and rustled. “Take a wild fuckin’ guess.”

“Raised in a barn?”

“Freshman dropout.” With another squeak of his chair, Jesse slouched way further back than he should have, hands settling into his lap. That glaring face of his, bronzed with a thorough tan and dusted with sunburn, briefly softened at the memory. It was only for a second, but Gabriel took note.

“No prescriptions, I assume.”

A curt nod was given.

“And what about drug use?

“I drink.”

“Not anymore, you don’t.”

“Great. Y’all gonna ban me from cursin’, too?”

“I might, if you keep up the sass.”

“Fuck you.”

Gabriel promptly laid his tablet face-down and stood up at the desk. “Alright, you desperado-wannabe, listen to me.” His voice was low, and the palpable tension in it made it far scarier than a yell. “You’re part of a fuckin’ team now—a team that’s gonna save the world by doing all its dirty work. No medals. No ceremonies. It’s the toughest gig you could possibly _imagine._ If you’re out in the field and you go all ‘lone wolf’ on us, then if the enemy doesn’t put a goddamn bullet in your skull, I sure as fuck will. Understand?”

“Well—”

“There is _no_ negotiation here. Either you straighten out, and I make you into an untouchable _stealth-machine_ … Or you keep disrespecting one of the deadliest men on the planet, and I lock you up for the rest of your worthless life. You wanna give me lip, go ahead; make my day.”

Gabriel could’ve easily gone on longer, but a sudden rhythmic knock on the door made it clear he wouldn’t be able. “Reyes? Is this a bad time?”

“…No such thing as a ‘good time’ here in Blackwatch, Morrison.”

After the door beeped open, Jesse instinctively squinted at the burst of vivid blue that stepped inside. “Uh… howdy.” He offered neither wave nor salute.

Jack Morrison wasn’t typically described as a “perky” sort of fellow, but in that moment, he looked like a golden-retriever sandwiched between a wolf and a coyote. “Well, I wanted to see the new recruit. I assume this is him?”

“More or less.”

Jack gave Jesse a quick glance up and down, looking rather contemplative. “He’s not what I’d expected, Reyes, but I trust your judgement.”

Jesse narrowed his dark-circled eyes, but then self-consciously adjusted the bandanna around his neck.

Nodding, Gabriel gestured vaguely at his recruit. “He’s good stuff, trust me. Hard worker, takes initiative, doesn’t quit easy. That kind of thing.”

“Sounds like that might cause problems down the road, if you ask me.”

“You’re the last person in the world who should be saying it’s bad to be stubborn.” With notable smoothness, Gabriel paced around the table to stand opposite Jack.

“What I’m _saying_ is, well, I’m just not fully convinced this kid is Blackwatch material. From what I’ve been told, all I know for sure about him is that he likes to pick fights he can’t always win.”

“Our whole job is to pick fights.”

“Not exac—”

“Okay, _my_ job.”

“Even that’s debatable.”

“Morrison, I’m serious. I know exactly what I’m doing here. This kid has exactly the kind of backbone I—no, _we_ —need.”

“Backbone isn’t enough to get this kind of work done.”

“Certainly wouldn’t hurt.”

Jack knew that was undoubtedly true and thus withheld his retort. He took another look at the wiry rascal still parked in the folding-chair.

As he’d been watching the two Commanders bicker with worriedly rapt attention, Jesse had to quickly feign disinterest; he rolled his eyes and shifted in his seat. That rickety metal frame typically groaned under the weight of agents like Gabriel or Jack, but with Jesse it hardly squeaked. Something felt oddly intriguing about the look in his eyes, though… as if they’d seen too much, and yet searched for more.

To Jack, it reminded him of Gabriel.

Jesse squinted, crossing his legs and giving the tile a good loud scrape with his spurs.

With a subtle shake of his head, Jack turned back to Gabriel and gave a faintly amused smile. “This kid better turn out _terrifying_ when you’re done with him.”

Gabriel snorted playfully. “That’s really the adjective you wanted?”

Jack turned and stepped back into the nondescript door-frame. “Well, isn’t it your job to pick fights?” He cracked a grin. “Just make sure you have the forms all sent within the next 24 hours. And let me join you two in that first trip to the practice range, alright? I, uh, wanna see that famous Deadlock Trigger-Discipline—” he raised one brow to imply ‘ _or lack thereof’_ — “in action. Best of luck, Reyes.”

The door shut with a loud thump, and the locks clicked back into place. Tactfully, Jesse kept his mouth shut until the sound of those blue-accented boots grew inaudible. “...So. Morrison. What’s his deal?”

Gabriel was gazing contemplatively at the shut door, standing with his hips tilted and his arms folded. “Well, you know how every once in awhile, you come across somebody you just shouldn’t fuck with?”

“That him?”

“No, that’s _me._ ”

“Oh.”

“Damn right, _‘oh’_. Charming as he is, I think Morrison forgets that I can get downright _benevolent_ if I want. Most people do. It’s like they might as well mistake me for the Grim Reaper or something.”

“Well, you sure didn’t gimme a real warm welcome.”

“You blew your chance at that before we even showed up at this facility, you street-urchin.”

“Whoa, easy there, your scythe is showing.”

Reluctantly, Gabriel mustered up a smirk. He turned somewhat towards Jesse, uncrossing his arms to slip his hands in his pockets, and thought quietly for a moment longer.

Jesse would have reopened his big yap to further sass his superior, but he was absolutely baffled by the peculiar power-dynamic forming between them. If this Commander Reyes was so hard-boiled and harsh, why didn’t he let Commander Morrison criticize the new recruit? And what’s with all those positive adjectives? Where’s the hazing? Or the bad-mouthing? The physical abuse? This scene just came off as unquestionably alien to him. Still, he figured the longer he could go without getting smacked around and mocked by any superiors, the better.

“...Jesse, do you know what this job’s gonna be all about?”

“Uh...”

“Respect. More specifically, you’ll be getting it for yourself by taking it from the other guy.”

“Actually, that sounds right up my alley.” In spite of his nerves, Jesse gave that reply through a faint chuckle. “Better’n paperwork and PR, at least.”

“Get ready to move out, then—it’s time to head up to the practice-range. We’re gonna play catch.”

“'Scuse me, ‘catch’?”

“Yup. _Catch_ up on all the weapons training I know you’ve never learned. You threw those Flashbangs at me earlier just like a kid would... And you don’t hold your rifles properly, either.” Gabriel opened the door with much less restraint than what Jack had shown. “Hope you’re ready to have over a decade’s worth of military training crammed in your head all at once.”

Jesse rolled his eyes with almost comical exaggeration. “Well… let’s get rollin’, _Pops._ ”


	2. Death Walks Among You

Why _wasn’t_ Gabriel the one with the statue?

Jesse lowered himself onto the grass and slumped against the side of the concrete memorial—a gleaming white rectangular column rising up from the earth, with the metal placard on its front face tarnished from six years’ worth of weathering. The text embossed upon it was far too scant for Jesse’s taste:

 _IN MEMORIAM_  
_GABRIEL ANGELO REYES_  
_2020 - 2070_  
_COMMANDER, LEADER, HERO_

But then again, Jesse also outright refused to activate the short biographical holovid which the monument could project. The full-color footage of the “glory days” wouldn’t give him any closure.

He heaved a deep breath of the alpine breeze, staring out at the mountainscape that dwarfed what remained of the former Headquarters. When he’d first visited this site almost two decades ago, he appreciated the thin dry air, as it reminded him of the elevations of New Mexico. Nowadays, though, he simply found himself sick of it. Too many good memories. Regardless, he felt somehow obligated to make the pilgrimage on the disaster’s anniversary, nostalgia be damned.

A brisk chill swept through the valley, and though it wasn’t passing by much besides rivers and wildflowers, it seemed to carry a twinge of gunsmoke with it.

Black tentacles of fog swelled up from just outside of Jesse’s vision, and as they rolled across the grass and dissipated, he was suddenly _very_ aware of the presence that had materialized next to him… or, rather, the void where a presence would fit nicely. This realization washed over him the very same moment as when an impossibly-hoarse voice rang out from the cold dead gap.

“You have about as much subtlety as your outfit does, you dirty son of a bitch. What are you doing here?”

Jesse didn’t have to turn his head to know it was Gabriel kneeling there, nor did he want to. He wished he could just keep clinging to his fading recollection of Gabriel’s sneering flesh-and-blood likeness—from before all this went to Hell in a handbasket—instead of having that ivory mask usurp whatever memories he hadn’t yet repressed. “...Just visitin’ family.”

Gabriel wasn’t anticipating such sentiment. There was a tense pause, and Jesse almost feared for his life for about five seconds, until the hazy growl resumed. “I’m _not_ your family, despite the _fatherly nicknames_ you’ve called me.”

“Doesn’t matter. I spent 14 years looking up to you, and I ain’t about to quit anytime soon.” He shifted against the monument to drum his gloved fingers against the stylized skull embossed upon his left forearm. “Hell, you’re the whole reason I’ve lived this long in the first place.”

“You and I both know your recklessness nearly got you killed a few dozen times in Blackwatch. I’m willing to bet you still have that problem.”

“Gettin’ shot while spying overseas is still better than bein’ blown up driving a truck of stolen missiles.”

Once again, Gabriel almost felt a fragment of emotion inside him.

“Ana misses you, y’know.”

“Bullshit.”

“She does. Fareeha, too.”

“Fareeha had always liked Reinhardt better.”

“She still has the shirt you made for her. Remember that one with the cartoon rocket?”

“...Terrible taste. Of course she kept it.”

“Maybe the whole damn team had terrible taste, then. We all miss you. Even ol’ Winston misses your, uh, ‘aggressive affection’, as he put it.”

“Your whole damn team is in shambles now. It’s pitiful.”

“Well… you held them together.”

Another silence settled in.

More than anything else, Jesse longed to place his good hand upon his mentor’s shoulder and feel a worn hoodie instead of that black-leather smoke.

Some potent aura of pure hostility was now emanating from where Gabriel knelt. It seemed to permeate Jesse’s heart in waves, visceral and agonizing, accompanied by some grotesque rhythmic rattling noise.

Jesse had never heard Gabriel weep before. It barely lasted five breaths, but it almost felt like fifty.

The rattle seized up as Gabriel shook his head and resumed speaking. “I’m going to strangle Jack with my bare hands.”

“You tried it already, and look how that turned out.” Sure, Jesse knew better than to use his ‘defensive joking’ strategy in a situation such as this, but he didn’t exactly feel ready to stumble over some half-baked words of attempted therapy.

“I’m going to _shred_ that bastard to pulp. Mark my words.”

“You seen ‘im lately? Morrison’s lookin’ less like a war vet and more like a miserable old man every day.” Feigning relaxation, Jesse casually reached up and took his cigar from his mouth, then extinguished it in the grassy earth. “Give the guy a break. He’ll wear himself out eventually, if he keeps this up...”

“He hasn’t yet. He never will.”

“You’re one to talk—just look at your damn self.”

With a noncommittal grumble, Gabriel turned his head ever so slightly to squint at his rogue protégé from behind the bone-white mask. Sometimes, Jesse seemed like he never matured past 17... and as Gabriel contemplated all of the man’s gambles and missteps, he genuinely wondered why that jaunty cock-of-the-walk attitude never faltered.

It reminded him of Jack.

No, it reminded him of _himself._

Jesse lifted his hat temporarily to smooth back his hair. “We’re fucked up, ain’t we?”

“And...?”

“I dunno. No clue what bein’ fucked-up even means anymore. Seems like the whole team is, these days.”

“They really are.” The weather seemed far too pleasant. Gabriel wished the bright sky had rainclouds as heavy as his heart felt. Maybe then, a few solid rolls of thunder could shake his core and he could pretend it was cathartic. “It’s the only thing we all have in common.”

“Well, that, and an ego the size of the gotdamn Matterhorn.”

“Go fuck yourself, ingrate.”

“You just proved my point.”

“Listen, there’s two kinds of men in this world, you little brat. Those with loaded shotguns, and those who need to keep their smart mouths _shut_ for once in their worthless lives.” Gabriel steadily rose to his feet, and his whole ensemble—a mess of chrome, red plastic, and black leather—loudly jingled and rustled. “I didn’t come here so an alcoholic cowboy could pretend to be my psychiatrist.” Ashy smog pooled around his ankles.

“What _did_ you c’mere for, Gabe?”

Instinctively, Gabriel’s face snapped downwards to glare at his ex-apprentice, and it took him about three full seconds to realize that, for the first time, Jesse was staring back.

Jesse looked terrible. Perhaps even worse than usual. With his tired eyes and sunburnt skin, he seemed more beat-up and ragged than the fraying serape draped around his body, which wasn’t far from the truth.

Sure, the fifty-six-year-old man formerly known as Gabriel Reyes was now a resentful smoke monster with a barn owl’s face, but he was still Gabriel Reyes. Under the cloak, he hadn’t changed. He’d never lost his confident posture or his no-nonsense mindset.

Jesse was about to make one more comment, but just before he could speak, the image of Gabriel burst into gunpowder mist that briskly slithered away across the Swiss countryside.

The two of them could deny it all they wanted, but Gabriel had never lost his soft side, either.

Maybe one day they’d notice.


End file.
